


The Men from the Boys

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [20]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hisana attempts to mend familial relations. Renji informs Rukia of the charges leveled against her. Byakuya receives a devastating order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Men from the Boys

Byakuya steps lightly across the freshly waxed floorboards. The grain shines, still slick from the recent coating. Carefully, he follows the curvature of the corridor, toward his wife's quarters. Bright yellow sunbeams pour into the west wing, bathing the walls a stately shade of gold.

As he rounds the bend, drawing ever closer, he stops. Cold. His eyes widen for a moment, but he recovers—not  _gracefully_ , but he doubts the women notice his confusion.

_Eight women._

_Noble women._

_Kuchiki women._

He blinks, hoping it will clear his vision. This cannot be. He must be hallucinating. Long days bleed into even longer nights at the Sixth, but  _this_?

Is he losing his mind?

Two by two, the women approach, arms interlinked. The first set of pairs regards him with proper bows, deep and respectful, and reverent looks of adoration. "Lord Kuchiki," the woman standing on the right greets, head low and eyes skimming the floorboards a beat longer before she dares to incline her gaze to meet his.

"Akane." He is half-shocked that he remembers their names. "Suiseiseki," he murmurs, nodding to the girl on the left.

Akane flicks open her fan. The leaves, painted in the shades of a brilliant fire, conceal her lips and nose. All he can see are her eyes. They are keen and gray, like all Kuchiki. "We were paying Lady Hisana a visit."

 _Lady Hisana_ —that's a new one. He cannot recall the last time a member of  _his_  family referred to his wife so cordially. Immediately, his mind begins to analyze the woman's words—scrutinizing their tenor and their pitch for veiled meanings.

Upon reflection, nothing sounds out of order, but, instead of assuaging his suspicion, it provokes him. He must be missing  _something_. His eyes narrow, his stare hardens, and a deep dissatisfaction resonates from his gaze. "I see," he says, his words finely whetted. "To what end—"

Before he can finish, Suiseiseki breaks in, "She is so lovely, Lord Kuchiki."

What fine new hell is this? He doesn't even know what to say to  _that_. Clearly, the woman doesn't mean her sentiments. Not after five decades of vitriolic and captious treatment can he take this sudden change of heart  _seriously_. It must be artifice or malcontent dressed in flowery words, like silk cloaking a dagger.

"We were so enamored by her grace and wit, milord, and her skill with the tea ceremony was second to none. We stayed almost all day, conversing with her. She is so elegant and refined. We forgot the time." His gaze drifts to the back. It is Aoi, who speaks. She is by far the youngest among this group of cousins, barely cresting into adolescence. Her girlish giddiness fuels some obnoxious giggling, and, suddenly, he feels very perturbed, like prey caught in the middle of a pack of laughing hyenas.

"Forgive her lack of poise, milord." Akane turns to the jittering Aoi, shoots the girl a pointed stare, and she passes her fan from her left hand to her right.

Aoi responds with a slight gasp. Timidly, she cups her mouth with both hands and bows low, too low for a proper Lady. "Forgive me, Lord Kuchiki."

"Despite the girl's lack of  _etiquette_ , she speaks truth, milord. Lady Hisana is very accomplished. We bid her to join us in the Hall of Flowers this evening."

Not on his life would he subject his poor, delicate wife to the Hall of Flowers, the Inner Court of the manor. She would be torn asunder by steely glances and biting conjecture. For all their flowery words and painted faces, the women are as cold-blooded and predatory as a mako shark.

"The Lady seemed hesitant." This time, Akane's punishing stare fixes  _him_ , as if she lays the blame at  _his_ feet for his wife's alleged reticence. "If it isn't too much, Lord Kuchiki, spare her for the evening. We will return her to your care at a proper hour." Her voice goes from chastising to pleading, and, briefly, he wonders when, exactly, he lost control of the situation.

"We shall see," he murmurs, a low violence simmering in his affect.

The women do not miss his open opposition, and they respond with some fluttering.

Akane tucks her chin down, submissively. "Good evening, milord." At her gentle defeat, a chorus of, "good evenings," follow. He bows his head slightly, and he continues to his wife's quarters.

He is about to launch a query when he peels back the door, but he swallows his concerns upon realizing his wife is conversing with Asagao. On his presence, the words die in the air. Both women go silent as they turn to find him looming over the threshold. His wife acknowledges him with a gentle but knowing look. Asagao, however, is less generous. A wily spark burns in her eyes, one that she immediately conceals with a snap of her fan. "Lord Kuchiki," she says, bowing very formally. "Forgive me."

He doesn't, but, out of respect for his wife, he refuses to give voice to the antipathy welling in the back of his throat. Instead, he pins Asagao with a stare. His stony façade expresses his reservations better than words ever could.

Asagao does not break under his attention. She sits perfectly undisturbed. Her devious smile stays in place, glued to her lips, and she continues in her usual effervescent manner, "Lady Hisana is such a gracious host, I simply lost track of the time."

He does not believe that. Not for a second. But, he lets it slide. For now.

His eyes drift from Asagao to his wife. His poor, put-upon wife. Despite the toll of her pregnancy, Hisana sits with her legs under her in perfect seiza. Ever refined and comported, her expression is unreadable to the untrained eye. A practiced but demure smile thins her lips, and a strained sparkle lights her eyes. He remembers that expression, well. Too well. Years ago, before she was his wife, she wielded that same look against certain men of high status when they spoke in vulgar tones and committed brutish acts.

"Please, Lord Kuchiki, forgive my intrusion." Asagao turns to Hisana, all smiles and furtive glances. "Lady Hisana, it has been a pleasure. I pray you join us tonight. I promise it will be worth your time, milady."

Byakuya watches Asagao's extravagance unaffected.

She moves with a studied lethargy. Her limbs are willowy, and her long graceful lines shift as she readies herself to take her leave. Everything about her perturbs him and draws his ire. He can't help but see the artifice and contrivances in everything she does, from the quirk of her smoky eyebrows to the tilt of her head.

It is irrational. He is quite aware. There is a possibility—no matter how slight—that Asagao's actions are not purely self-motivated, but there is something, something that lingers in the margins, that tells him otherwise. He is convinced that, if you scratch the surface of Asagao's polished veneer, all you will find are dark machinations and ruthless ambition.

But, what is her goal? He is not certain.  _Yet._  It is only a matter of time before she  _exposes_ herself. For now, he has a hunch that she's vying for Aunt Masuyo's place in the hierarchy. If that is the case, then befriending the mother of the clan's future heirs is a prudent move.

"I should marry her off," he says under his breath once Asagao is out of earshot.

Hisana gives a long slow shake of her head in teasing disapproval. "Lord Byakuya."

"If they imposed, I will—"

Hisana silences him with an assuaging glance. "It's not an imposition when I invited them."

He goes still. What? She  _invited_  them? That can't be. He must have misheard. "Invitation?"

She chuckles at his rare moment of blundering inelegance. "Forgive me, Lord Byakuya. This was something that I should have done  _decades_  ago, from the beginning." Offering her hand, she lowers her head shyly.

He accepts, lacing his fingers through hers, and he kneels before her. His mind works a mile a minute to sort through the ambiguity of her words and looks. What is the "something" that she should have done decades ago? And, "from the beginning"? From the beginning of  _what_? He wracks his brain, trying to piece it together, but, no matter the effort, the threads lead him only to more questions.

Her fingertips, cool and feather-light, brush against his brow, tucking a stubborn lock of hair behind his ear.

That's when he sees it—the color of her sleeves. How had he missed it? It is so obvious: the plain indigo cotton kimono and the red apron. Instinctively, his fingers curl in the apron's loose red fabric. Years ago, she donned the very garments of her profession when she was called to the capitol. Every month, the Central 46 reserves the services of three high-ranking courtesans to serve the judges and administrators while they go through various cases and regulatory matters.

The mandated garb for the courtesans? An indigo cotton kimono and a red apron.

She invited the family to  _serve_  them.

His blood runs cold at the thought. "Hisana," his breath strangles in his throat. He wants very badly to chastise her for lowering herself. She is the Lady of the House. She should not be made to feel that she is required to prove her worth time and again, not for his sake and, most definitely, not for his family's sake.

Sensing his disapprobation, she cups the hand that clenches her apron. Her touch is soothing, and, fiber by fiber, his muscles relax. He inhales a troubled breath. He wants to ask her why. He wants to question her methods and her purpose.

Reading the lines on his face with great ease, she meets his gaze. "Once upon a time," she begins, straightening the collar of his robes, "there was a very lovely tayū and a very handsome nobleman. They loved each other dearly, and, one day, the man purchased the tayū's contract and made her his wife. To do this, however, the man went against the wishes of his family. In retaliation, his family severed ties with him. Learning of this, the man's wife begged for a divorce. The man, however, could not bear the potential of separation. To repair the fracture, his wife convinced him to write to his family. In his letter, he promised his family that he would divorce his courtesan-wife. He, then, invited the Ladies to his home to view the cherry blossoms. When the women arrived, the wife very diligently and very carefully served them. She relied on the training she received as a courtesan. They found her so charming and so appropriate they begged the man to cease the divorce proceedings."

"Hisana," he murmurs, voice low and warning, but she knows she has the upper hand in this matter.

"I have endured enough bitterness for one lifetime, Lord Byakuya." There is a sigh building in her voice, but she holds it back for him.

"But, they—" They tried to kill her. They knew of his happiness, and they only saw fit to crush it, to ruin his family. For that treachery, they will never deserve her kindness or her talents. They deserve  _nothing_  and worse.

She quiets these violent thoughts with a touch. Her thin tapered fingers trace a line from the joints of his fingers to his knuckles. Kindness imbues her in such abundance that she cannot help the effects of its overflow; it slips out and infects him against his will.

"For our children's sake, I think it is best to reconcile." Her voice and look are both measured and sure.

Apprehensively, his gaze flickers up and finds her. A question flashes in his slate gray eyes. His heart will not relent; it cannot relent. His disdain is too complete; it has chipped away the love he once bore for his clan, leaving behind only the duty and the honor to keep him fixed in that manor.

"It's time, Lord Byakuya." Her voice goes soft until it is almost a whisper. He has to struggle to hear it. He leans forward, closer to her and his children's warmth, and, for a moment, he finds peace. This peace, however, proves fleeting; he struggles to maintain such attitude. It eludes him when his mind slips back to thoughts of his family and their propensity for deceit.

"I think Asagao is the most sensible go-between," Hisana adds. She gives a small nod of her head. It is the type of nod that seeming reassures him and settles him at the same time.

But, once more, her spell breaks as soon as his thoughts wander the peripatetic roads of their shared history. He cannot let go of his contempt, a contempt that has not waned in close to fifty years. "Do you trust Asagao?" Uncertainty resonates in his voice and creases his forehead. He's asking her to placate him.

He's asking too much.

"No."

His eyes widen at Hisana's candor. It feels like she has just ripped an adhesive bandage from his heart with one quick yank. In response, his heart has a small fit, and he feels the contents in his stomach plummet. He hasn't the faintest idea of how to respond. Her honesty has stripped him of his propriety.

"But, she is the best choice," Hisana says, and she squeezes his hand reassuringly.

The best of the worst, he thinks. What a ringing endorsement.

"I will ensure her compliance." What he means is he will protect his wife and his children. If perforce, he will play politics. He needs the practice, he tells himself with great disdain. It has been a long while since he last dared to inquire let alone immerse himself in the devious game-playing that dominates the minds of the civilian members of the Kuchiki.

A long time ago, when his father was still alive and well, Sōjun, with great prescience of mind, bestowed upon him the following advice:  _He who sacrifices his conscience to ambition burns a picture to obtain the ashes_.

Byakuya only hopes that acquiescing to Asagao's raw ambition will mend the tattered tapestry of the family and will not set what little remains of it on fire.

* * *

Staring slack-jawed and in a kinetic state of awe, Rukia watches as Ichigo beats back the Menos Grande.  _How—?_   _Did he—? How?_   _Is it even possible?_

Renji sheathes his Zanpakutō and shakes his head. "Would've been better if he actually  _purified_  it."

Rukia turns to Renji, feeling a great deal incensed that her friend couldn't relish the sheer magnitude of Ichigo's achievement.  _An untrained human fended off a Menos Grande. Way to totally miss the point, Renji._

"Either way," Renji begins, heaving a long sigh, "it doesn't matter. Soul Society already knows."

So, her childhood friend goes from being uninspired to vague. She isn't certain she considers this sudden transformation an  _improvement_. "What?"

Ignoring her question, he grabs her wrist, and pulls her behind him with white-knuckles.

"Renji!" she cries, trying to break his grip. It's no use. His hand just envelopes her, and his hold is iron-tight. "What did you just say?"

"It doesn't matter what the kid does, Rukia. They already know!"

Not getting any better, she thinks to herself. Who is "they" and what do they "already know," and why does it or doesn't it "matter"?

"C'mon, Renji. What are you talking about?"

He stops mid-stride, wheels around, and forces her close with an abrupt yank. Anger flashes across his face as he leans over her. She can see it glowing like embers in those brown eyes. Little tiny flecks of pissed off embers. "I am talking about Soul Society. The place you  _abandoned_  for—" He flings back his arm, and he makes a wild swooping gesture. "—for…for…  _this_!"

Wow. That went from pissed off to pissed off  _and_  personal really fast. Wide-eyed, Rukia stares back at him, unsure of which issue to tackle first. "Soul Society?" Instantly, she regrets her choice of inquiry, and she flinches, anticipating his wrath.

Renji's eyes widen at her blundering question. " _Yes_ ,  _Rukia_ ," the razor sharp edge to his voice threatens to slit her, "Soul Society. Along with your power did the kid suck out your  _brain_ , too?"

Okay, that  _stung_.

Flinchingly, she turns her cheek and peers out a half-squinted eye, as if she is still weathering the brunt of his rancor. If he slugged her, she can't say she would be shocked.

He doesn't, though.

"What I mean,  _Renji_ ," she says, opting to match his antagonism with her own brand of hotheaded indignation, which, in hindsight, seems to be a poor way to handle an already rankled Renji. "What I mean is: Why does Soul Society care? They've known where I have been for the last two months!"

He stares at her as if she grown another head, and, then, he laughs. Hard. "What the hell are you talking about, Rukia? No one knows where you've been. No one. Not me. Not your division. Not even your  _brother_. You didn't just go AWOL, Rukia. All traces of you fell off the map! All of this is sort of  _obvious_."

"How is it obvious, Renji?"

"It's obvious,  _Rukia_ , because no one has come to retrieve you despite you being here for two months!"

Really?

What the hell is he going on about?

She's been receiving orders from her Denreishinki all this time. Someone  _had to know_  where she was. Her communicator has a unique signature, which gets logged when she completes a task, and, since she's the only Shinigami patrolling Karakura Town, who did they  _think_  was doing all of these jobs? And, even if someone else was completing all of the tasks, wouldn't  _that_  be concerning? Some unknown entity with enough spiritual power to fend off a Menos Grande…like….

_"_ _Ichigo!"_

Renji pulls her behind him. "The kid will be fine."

"Wait, no, Renji!" she pleads, voice cracking. "They'll, they'll, they'll—"

"Kill him if they can put two and two together," Renji quickly reminds her.

"Wait. What?"

Why must he insist on being so damn ambiguous? It's as if he's talking in code, like when they were kids. Except, now, she wasn't there for the first part so she's lost.

"They know a human took your powers. They don't know  _which human_ , Rukia, but, when they find out, they plan to neutralize him. Let's get outta here before that happens—to him  _or_ you. Because believe me, Rukia, they aren't very pleased with  _you_ either."

"Who's  _they_?"

"The Central 46."

It's like he's dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. She shudders, blanches, and feels the earth shift under her feet. "The Ch-ch-chambers?"

Renji shoots her a stern glare. "The one and only."

"What? How? Why?"

A frustrated grunt tells her that he isn't about to oblige her myriad questions. "C'mon, Rukia," he says, pulling her along before she has the chance to launch another exhilarating round of 1001 Questions.

"Where are we going?" she asks, after a moment of silence.

"We're gonna turn you in, and we're gonna beg, plead, and cry for mercy, and,  _hopefully_ , we can convince them  _not_ to toss you into the Nest of Maggots."

She shivers and puts on the brakes. "We're talking Nest of Maggots?" Holy shit. She was gone  _two months_. She lost her strength due to a poorly performed power transfer, but the reason behind the transfer was  _pure_ —she merely wanted to get the job done. She isn't some "dangerous element" —whatever that means—and her actions hardly amount to  _treason_.

Feeling her body buckle against the force of his urgency, Renji pauses and gives his friend a sympathetic sidelong glance. "It's really bad, Rukia." His previous anguish diminishes, but it morphs into a far worse emotion— _empathy_.

She can always count on Renji  _not_  to sugarcoat it. It doesn't make her fate any more palatable, but she knows what she's in for when she waltzes back into Seireitei, and it's not a warmhearted welcome. "I didn't know, Renji." Like that, the proverbial dam breaks, and a verbal deluge spews forth. "Really, I didn't. I thought this damn,  _thing_ , this  _gigai_ , would restore my power. And, I thought someone  _knew_ —"

Renji cuts her off with a shake of his head. "Rukia," he begins and places a hand on her shoulder, "I believe you."

That's all she wants—no,  _needs—_ to hear. She wants to know her friend doesn't find her behavior morally reprehensible. She wants to know Renji doesn't hate her for her weakness.

"Your family and Captain Ukitake can probably talk the Council down," Renji says, calmly.

Rukia nods her head. Yes.  _Hopefully._  She doesn't doubt that Captain Ukitake will understand her situation and logic. But, Brother? He's not exactly well-known for his  _flexibility_ when it concerns violations of law and character. He will likely find her conduct unbecoming of an officer of the Sixth  _and_  as a member of his family. And, Sister…. Sister cannot know, not in her state.

_Breathe, Rukia. Pull yourself together._

"We need to get you back." Renji's voice crashes through her thoughts, steadying her. "We need to make this—" Again, he gives a wide sweeping motion with his arm. "—right."

She nods for a few beats then shakes her head. Conflict colors her features in its dark shades and draws thin worry-lines across her brow. It  _feels_  wrong, deeply wrong, to leave, and her heart swells with great sadness, but she knows this is the inevitable outcome. She has to return, must return. Her life, her family, and many of her friends reside in Seireitei. None of that makes losing her living friends any easier, but, as she braces for the chill of sadness and the inevitability of loss, she sets her mind. Her absence will  _protect_  them, she convinces herself.

Gulping down her hesitation, Rukia takes a small consenting step forward.

Just as her weight settles on her supporting leg, a sharp "tsk," "tsk," "tsk," paralyzes her. Reflexively, her head bobs up, and she turns to find Urahara standing with his jacket hanging from his shoulders and donning a devious expression. "How  _cold_ , Miss Kuchiki. Leaving without saying goodbye. What will everyone think?" His voice toes the line between chastising and flippant.

Rukia's gaze darts from Renji to Urahara.

"Who's this guy?" Renji asks, jabbing his thumb in the direction of Urahara.

"Oh, me?" Urahara coos, drawing the vowels out a little too long for Rukia's liking. Instantly, he unfolds his fan and flutters it in front of his face. "I am just a simple merchant, nothing more," his voice trills.

What is with him? This must be the twentieth time she's heard the "simple merchant" routine. It's starting to lose what little semblance it bears to the truth. "More like a charlatan," Rukia mutters to herself.

Renji turns to Rukia, and she can tell by the tensing of his jaw that he wishes her to go, but he hesitates. For her. He gives her an opening, and she takes it.

"Please?" She bows her head, but her large doleful eyes never break his gaze.

Renji capitulates with an eye-roll and a heavy sigh. "Be quick about it." His impatience is clear, but she appreciates his charity nonetheless.

"Thank you, Renji."

* * *

When Byakuya returns home that night, his skin is slick with sweat, and his robes cling to him like tape. It is late, and he does not wish to disturb his wife as he slides back the door to the room. To his surprise, however, he finds she is not in residence. His futon is set. The covers are fresh and crisply tucked around the mattress, but there is no trace of her. No depression in the bed. No signs of food or drink. The room is without, and he, suddenly, feels a sense of mourning, as if he is without as well.

 _She is placating the family_ , he remembers, and his eyes slip closed. Sometimes, he wonders whether his wife enjoys torture or whether guilt leads her to expect such foul treatment. Either way, he wishes peace for her even if he knows she would refuse it.

Feeling burdened by a great heaviness of heart, he shrugs free of his haori, and his fingers begin to tease loose the knots of his uniform. When he reaches for fresh silk, he resolves himself to wait for her return. He needs to know she is well of spirit before he can rest.

A few hasty knots secure the garments in place, and he crosses the floor toward the bath. He is just about to reach for the door when his attention is diverted by a familiar fluttering. The black wings of a hell butterfly capture his attention, and he reaches up, allowing the insect to settle its weight on his fingertip.

Everything stops. It is instantaneous, and it is complete. Utter mortification crashes over him with the weight of a thousand bricks. His body freezes, his heart ceases to beat, and his lungs forget how to draw breath.

"Rukia." His sister's name slips from his lips like a curse.

"Milord."

He turns. Skin pale, eyes wide, and a look of immense horror and guilt washes over his features. His alarm is so thorough that he did not detect the presence of his wife as she waits, kneeled politely outside his door. Remembering himself and his manners, he turns to her and bids her to enter with nodding approval.

"Lord Byakuya, you look wan." Concerned, she stands with some effort and hurries to him. "Are you well? Shall I fetch milord water?" Caressingly, her hands scatter across his forehead.

A distant look clouds his eyes, but he possesses enough wit not to send his weary wife searching the house for food, water, or ether. He gives a small shake of his head, sets his hand on her shoulder to prevent her from leaving his side, and, then, he does something unexpected. He leans down, and he presses a kiss against his wife's head.

She smells of white plum, cherries, and apricots. She smells like home, and he inhales a deep breath. His lips linger against her cool flesh for a few moments longer. Silently, he prays the simple act will expose his motives, will force her speak, and will draw her forgiveness and affection. Most of all, he prays for her understanding.

Lifting his head, he whispers his regret into the fragrant strands of her hair. "I must go."

"An order, milord?"

A heavy breath skates across her scalp, and he squeezes her shoulder. "Forgive me, Hisana."

She stares back at him. A thin unsure smile hangs from her lips. She doesn't understand.

He doesn't have the heart to inform her of the duplicity that his rank requires of him that night, but he makes her a silent promise: Once this task is complete, he will get to the bottom of its cause and source. He will protect his family. All of it.

* * *

Renji is  _just_  beginning to  _regret_  his capitulation. The threads of doubt start to unspool as he steps across the threshold of the  _merchant's_  convenience shop. Up the stairs they go. The door draws back, and . . . .

Kids.

Lots of human kids.

Then, it hits him like a speeding Mack Truck, and he's road kill. It's just like old times. It's just like back in the day—in Inuzuri. Rukia surrounded by a ragtag group of misfits. Except, now, they aren't in Inuzuri, they are not children, and Rukia's association with this gaggle of kids is  _most definitely_  violating laws. All sorts of laws.

He bows his head towards her. "You can't keep them."

She shakes her head.  _Not the time Renji_ , is what her little flustered tremor means.

Renji heaves a sigh, stewing.  _Sorry, Rukia. Right now is the time. We've got to go._  He then grabs her wrist tightly in one hand, and he gives her a warning sidelong gaze. Words rise in his throat, acerbic and sour like bile, but he swallows them. It ain't pretty or dignified, but he waits, keeping time with his left foot.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Is Ichigo alright?" Rukia asks, and she moves to the small makeshift gurney where he rests.

Renji represses the urge to roll his eyes. "Looks good, Rukia," he says in his patented 'let's hurry up and go' cadence.

"Yes." The answer comes in the form of a high-pitched twittering voice. "Mr. Urahara brought him. He said Ishida saved him at the last minute."

Following the sound of the voice, Renji's eyes shift to find a thin, well-endowed, redhead girl. She seems nervous and slightly frazzled, but she attempts to hide her unraveling nerves with a kind smile and a chirpy voice.

Briefly, he wonders whether she knows the cause of their friend's state.  _Probably not,_  he reckons. Running into one human who has the sort of power this Ichigo kid has is a one in a million type of deal. Two? Well, they had that other kid, the one with the serious brow who called himself a Quincy.  _Two_  is fucking pushing it. But  _three_. C'mon. No way there would be  _three_  spiritually aware kids and in  _one town_? Figure the odds.

"Mr. Urahara says Ichigo will recover." The voice is deep and dark. Its possessor is a tall, well-defined boy who seems calm.

Shaking back the possibility that Karakura Town is some aberrant nightmare land filled with spiritually aware teenagers and random rifts into the spiritual realm that spew hollows, Renji takes a step forward. "C'mon, Rukia. We've got to go." He pulls back on her wrist, lightly; he is only testing to see how stubbornly she clings to the grand idea of saying farewell.

She does not budge.

"Who's he?" the redheaded girl asks, clasping her hands in front of her hips.

Renji stops, and he glances to his back. Nope. No one behind him, which can only mean….

_Oh, shit._

"Oh, him?" Rukia shakes free of his grasp and gives a charming little chuckle.

Oh, how he knows those charming little chuckles. They usually precede a  _charming little_ lie.

"He's … a … well … he's a  _friend_."

"Oh." The girl blinks, nonplussed. "But, he's dead?"

"Deader than disco, kid," Renji mutters as he reclaims hold of Rukia's arm and vainly attempts to usher her to the door.

"But … if he's dead…then … how can he be a friend?" Slowly, the redhead is solving the puzzle with an adorable tilt of the head and a finger pressed against her lips.

Rukia pauses. Sheer panic colors her face, creasing her brow and blanching her complexion. "That's a good question, Inoue." She giggles nervously. "Well, you see, I'm—"

Renji grits his teeth and interrupts with a tense, "She's dead, too, kid. We're all dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. And, now, we've got to go because otherwise Rukia's gonna be deader than dead."

"What does that mean, Rukia?" Sitting up, Ichigo runs a hand across his tense scalp. He stares at her, eyes squinting as if he's trying to focus.

"No-nothing, Ichigo. Nothing to worry yourself over." Rukia waves her hand, as if that will make all the questions and concerns go away.

Ichigo eyes her. His skepticism is loud and clear. "I didn't ask if it's something I should worry about. I asked about what that guy is talking about, and why is he so eager for you to leave?" Adjusting his gaze, Ichigo fixes Renji with a pointed glare. "Where are you taking her?"

 _Fuck this_. As if Renji's taking orders from a  _kid_. He doesn't care if said kid beat back a thousand Menos Grande-level hollows. A kid is a kid, and, in Renji's world, that means less than dirt. "Rukia," his voice goes deathly cold, "say your goodbyes or don't. Either way, we're leaving."

"What a minute!" Ichigo slings a leg over the side of the table, and, resting his weight on the palms of his hands, he propels himself up and into a standing position. "What do you mean by  _goodbye_? Rukia?"

Renji watches as Rukia's gaze flickers from him to the kid. There is something keeping her from expressing herself. It's as if the sentiments have overflowed from her heart, but her throat proves to be an ironclad sluice, preventing her farewell from escaping. Renji's seen it before—that strange panicked look in her eyes. Rukia's no good at saying goodbye. She doesn't believe in them. There's no use.

"What is going on?" Ichigo asks again, eying Renji. The distrust is so apparent that even Renji tenses, as if he is preparing to fight if the situation calls for it.

"It's nothing, Ichigo." Her voice is strained and weak, and, attempting to cover for her poor performance, Rukia flashes an impish grin and gives a wave. "I'm just—" Her eyes flit to Renji just as her brain stalls.

" _Just_?" Ichigo echoes back at her.

"Just." A nervous pause later, she rallies again, "You know, I'm going to—"

It's clear to Renji that Rukia has no fucking clue what to say. And, ' _Hey, I'm gonna go to jail now. Thanks for the memories,'_  seem like such  _poor_  terms on which to end.

"I'm taking her back to where she belongs," Renji brazenly interrupts just as the tension reaches a fever-pitch, his fingers itching at the hilt of his sword.

"And, where's that?" Ichigo does not seem particularly  _pleased_  with Renji or the sudden and unexpected turn of events.

"Home." Renji's hand wraps around the hilt of his zanpakuto.

"Is that true, Rukia?" Ichigo doesn't even attempt to hide his skepticism.

All she can do is stare, stunned like a deer caught in the headlights. "Ichigo," she says, voice calm and quiet, "it's okay."

Never before in the history of  _ever_  has the response, 'it's okay,' been uttered with such stifled horror. If the kid has an IQ above that of a  _brick_ , it should be quite apparent to him and everyone else in the room that things for Rukia are  _definitely_   _not 'okay_.'

Lolling his head to the side, Ichigo rubs the back of his neck. "Doesn't  _sound_  like everything's okay. And  _who_  is this  _guy_  anyway? Renji, Vice Captain of the Thirteenth." The skepticism is dialed up to eleven, and, to punctuate his escalating incredulousness, Ichigo pins Renji with a dark sidelong glance.

Under normal circumstances, Renji would've accepted Ichigo's invitation to the Pissing Contest Royale, but, right then, the crushing burden of desperation bears down on him, and he opts for forcing Rukia behind him. Without a word, the two head for the door.

"Hey, I was talking to you!"

The kid is relentless, Renji'll give him that much. "I heard you,  _kid_ ," he growls, glimpsing Ichigo over his shoulder.

"But, if he tells you the  _truth_ , you won't like it." And, just like magic, the simple town merchant appears in the doorway. His hat is perfectly in place, veiling his eyes, and he leans his left shoulder against the door, obstructing its passage.

Renji's eyes harden at this.  _Who, exactly, are these people?_  There is something definitely  _wrong_  with this town, and he's starting to wonder if it's the town's residents.

"And what truth would that be?" Ichigo asks, arms folded against his chest.

It's clear to Renji that the kid's in  _defensive_  mode, and Renji is all too keenly aware of how quickly  _defensive_  can morph into  _offensive_. Not that he thinks the kid would be much of a match against  _him_ , but it wouldn't be  _sporting_  to engage a mere boy in combat, especially given Rukia's peculiar attachment to the motley crew of meddling kids.

"The truth that he's taking Rukia back to face high crimes and treason."


End file.
